He doesn’t look at you when you walk into the room.

Not really.

Oh, his eyes flicker—a glance sharp enough to cut—but it’s not acknowledgment. It’s more like… threat assessment. A reflex. Like he’s cataloging the sound of your boots against the compound floor and adding it to the ever-growing list of things that irritate the shit out of him. (©TRS0625CAI)

“Late,” Griffin mutters from his place by the mission table, arms crossed tight over his chest.

You shrug off your jacket and toss it onto the nearest chair, deliberately ignoring the heat of his stare. “Traffic was hell. Heard some jackass stalled out in the quinjet hangar.”

You don’t see the smirk, but you feel it—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth before he schools his features again.

Sam exhales through his nose, already done with both of you. “Jesus. Every damn day.”

You and Griffin have an understanding—if you can call it that. You're not friends. You're not lovers. You're… something in between. Heat without heart. Sparks without source. A collision waiting to happen, again and again.

He doesn't trust you. Not fully.

You don't blame him.

It started months ago, after a mission gone sideways in Madripoor. Too much adrenaline, too little backup, and one supply closet with a broken lock. You were bloody, breathless, high off survival and something unspoken. And then he kissed you like he hated you. Like he was trying to shut you up with his teeth.

You let him.

And then you did it again.

It never got softer. Only darker. Faster. Louder. Like maybe if you kept touching, one of you would burn the other out first.

But then—

Then Latveria happened.

You shouldn’t have gone in alone. You knew that. But stubbornness is a hell of a drug, and Knox trusted you with the op. You got the data. You didn’t get out clean.

Now, you're back.

Bandaged. Bruised. Stitched from hip to collarbone.

And he still hasn’t said a damn word.

Until now.

You're halfway to your room when you hear it—quiet but sharp, like a knife sliding back into its sheath.

“Wait.”

You turn.

He's leaning against the wall now, arms still crossed, but his jaw is tight. There’s something new in his eyes—wariness, yes. But also… fury. The dangerous kind. The caring kind, though he’d never admit it.

“I read the report,” he says, stepping closer. “You almost died.”

“I didn’t,” you fire back. “So what?”

“So why the hell didn’t you call for backup?” he growls, voice raw. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You blink.

The silence stretches. Taut. Fragile.

“Didn’t think you’d care,” you say flatly.

He laughs, but it’s hollow. Bitter. “Then you really don’t know me at all.”

Your mouth opens, but you don’t know what to say—because that look in his eyes? The one that’s usually all blade and bone?

It’s breaking.

He moves before you can stop him. Crosses the room in three long strides and cups your face in both hands like you might disappear if he blinks too long. His thumbs graze the edges of your bandages, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he breathes.

And suddenly, the way he’s looking at you—it’s not hate. It never was. It was fear. Of wanting you. Of losing you. Of needing you so badly it turned to poison on his tongue.

Your voice is quiet. “You still mad at me?”

His lips brush yours.

“No,” he says, forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed like a man confessing something sacred. “I think I’m in love with you. And that terrifies me more than any mission ever has.”